Father & Son, Rashid & Salim

The Story of Umm Iyad

The neighbourhood was different back in those days. There was no zawiya, and I lived on the ground floor of a three story apartment block nestled between our guest-house and the land that would eventually give birth to the zawiya. As I turned right from the black-and-white outer door of my home that faced the street, it was only a few short steps up the hill until the guest-house was reached. It was entered through a courtyard, the edges of which were being slowly colonised by young vines, with fruit still too young and bitter to draw benefit from. Inside the guest-house was where the brothers slept and lived when visiting from overseas. Little teaching took place there though sometimes we would recite Hizb al-Bahr and Hizb al-Nasr after the mid-afternoon prayer. It was only later that the guest-house would become a place of teaching and dhikr before being drawn back to its former service as a rest-stop for the traveller after the new zawiya was built. The hadra was held four times a week—twice in Amman, once in Sarih, and once in Irbid after the Friday prayer. An old bus would swing onto the hill and we would board with whosoever was staying nearby, to be taken to wherever the hadra was. That was in the evening. In the morning we silently recited a portion of our daily litanies outdoors. After the morning prayer a few of us, some- times numbering only one or two, would walk up to the top of the hill on the edge of Kharebsheh that overlooked the uninhabited barren valley below. There as sunrise approached we would sit silently and recite our own personal litanies. After 45 minutes or so the sun would rise over us and we would leave. This was all in 1996 and 1997.

At around the same time a young Arab of Palestinian descent became my student. His name was sidi Iyad. He helped with procuring often rare manuscripts and books, for this was his speciality, but he also had some training in calligraphy. This was useful as a new awrad book was in preparation. The awrad book was to contain four litanies authored by Sayyidina Abul Hasan al-Shadhili, and others penned by such masters as Sayyidina Abul Abbas al-Mursi and Sayyidina Abul Muwahib al-Shadhili al-Tunisi. We had selected only the most rigorously authentic litanies, which were then to be compiled into a small book of awrad, written by one of the leading calligraphers in the world. The calligrapher was world-class: he had won the world championship for the naskh script at an international competition in Istanbul. Now he was living temporarily in the neighbourhood, writing out the litanies of the Shadhili Tariqa. I put sidi Iyad’s knowledge to good use. Behind the scenes he would advise me, pointing out any imperfections in the penmanship; and I would go to the calligrapher and say, ‘this could be better’, or ‘that could be better’. After a time the calligrapher realised who was advising me, and sidi Iyad became the enemy. His help was in- valuable.

The book of awrad was now finished and I learnt from sidi Iyad that his mother had decided she would read Hizb al-Kabir, and she continued in its recitation until the early part of 2004. I was somewhat surprised at this. Hizb al-Kabir is quite long and many people of the tariqa do not have the strength, or find it difficult, to recite day-on-day, and sidi Iyad’s mother was not in the tariq. She was just an ordinary Arab woman, though she had sacrificed and worked hard for her children. Sidi Iyad’s father was absent so Umm Iyad had raised her children alone. By day teaching at school; by night sewing piece-work, all to make ends meet. She was always working, working, working. And she did so to give her children an education, and sent them on to university. Umm Iyad sacrificed a great deal for her children.

In the first part of 2004 Umm Iyad had trouble with gall-stones. A hospital admission followed, where she had an operation to remove them. It so turned out that the gall-stones were accompanied by advanced liver cancer. This was unexpected and came as a shock. Umm Iyad was given just four months to remain in this world. The cancer was too advanced to treat. Sidi Iyad came to me to break the news, and we talked, Iyad and I.

‘It’s better not to tell her’, he said.

To which I replied, ‘In my opinion I would like to be told about something like this so I could make ready, prepare’.

‘No, it would wreck the family and everyone would start acting unusual and break her heart’.

Finally I listened to his reasoning, ‘OK, you call the shots, you know the family better than I do’.

They didn’t tell her. Not about the liver cancer, nor about her shortened life. Even as Umm Iyad grew weaker, which she surely did, she didn’t show any outward suspicion of the seriousness of her illness. She only said over-and-over, ‘When I get better I’m going to do this and I’m going to do that’.

Sidi Iyad’s mother now took the tariq from me and continued on with her daily reading of Hizb al-Kabir. In spite of her illness, her failing strength, and straightened circumstance, Allah Most High made it possible for Umm Iyad to go to the Hajj. This she did even though less than the age that the Jordanian government issues Hajj permits for. The numbers have to be restricted to prevent overcrowding and crushing; it’s not easy for Muslims from the East to go on Hajj. And so Umm Iyad went with her son and daughter-in-law to attend to her. The Hajj was completed and Umm Iyad returned, by now she was very tired, very weak.

Upon his return sidi Iyad paid me a visit bringing with him some unexpected news. His mother had requested that she be entered into the khalwa.

I said to him, ‘how can someone go in the khalwa when they don’t know anything about mudhakara, they haven’t heard anything, they haven’t prepared?’

Sidi Iyad insisted that his mother’s mind was set, she wanted the khalwa, and sidi Iyad persisted in his asking on her behalf. Finally I decided to pray an istikara about the matter.

Over the years I’ve seen many elderly mothers do extremely well in the solitary dhikr of the khalwa. Such women have spent of themselves, often over decades, serving their children and husbands behind closed doors, with no public thanks or applause. This is very high ikhlas. Such unsung, low-profile service is always a recipe for sincerity. So I prayed an istikara about whether or not to enter Umm Iyad into the khalwa and to my utter surprise it was positive. She’s been in the tariqa for four weeks and she’s going into the khalwa.

Because of her weakness caused by her illness Umm Iyad was put into the khalwa at sidi Iyad’s house. When we arrived Umm Iyad was sitting on the bed saying, ‘when I get well I’ll be up and about’. Still no-one had told her she was passing out of this world. It was there she made dhikr for three days and reached what many people of the tariqa are unable to reach after forty years. Allah Most High illumed her with a complete fath, a complete marifah. Afterwards she said, ‘where on earth was I, where on earth am I now’. She was just shocked at what Allah had opened up to her. I was pretty surprised myself. After that she found it very difficult to listen to the relatives when they visited and spoke of the usual things relatives across the world talk about. She couldn’t listen to any of them for more than fifteen minutes. She couldn’t stand it. And she made dhikr all the time: Allah, Allah, Allah. Umm Sahl would visit and read aloud the letters of Moulay al-Arabi al-Darqawi, and this soon became Umm Iyad’s whole joy, to hear the words of Moulay al-Arabi. She only wanted to hear of Allah and the next life. This world no longer held her interest and she couldn’t bear to hear of it. Now her whole happiness was Allah, her dhikr, and Umm Sahl reading during those visits.

And still Umm Iyad said, ‘when I get well I’m going to do this and I’m going to do that’.

But she didn’t get better, instead things became very tough for her. She was unable to move around the house; she could not get out of bed without help.

The King Hussein Cancer Center in Amman is one of the best hospitals in the Middle East. It is also the most expensive. It is the pinnacle of the Jordanian government’s desire to make the country a centre of excellence for medical treatment in the Middle East. Wealthy Arabs from across the region visit for treatment. Sidi Iyad went there and talked to the head administrator who told him, ‘that’s alright, we can admit your mother for nothing’. Umm Iyad was admitted free of charge. Doubtless she saw where she was being taken as the large sign outside the hospital is pretty plain, yet she pretended not to know for her children’s sake. It’s likely she knew all along, only feigning ignorance to make her children happy. She was there for about ten days, then Thursday night came.

The hadra and the lesson had finished, people were dispersing, preparing to return home. Sidi Iyad sought me out. He knelt down in front of me and told me his mother had taken a turn for the worse. I summoned Umm Sahl and with sidi Iyad we hurried to the hospital directly.

Shortly after our arriving at the ward Umm Iyad closed her eyes and Umm Sahl and I had the same sort of vision at the same time. We could see Umm Iyad’s ruh straining to leave her body to reach its heavenly station. We stayed a while, read al-Fatiah, then re- turned home. It was only later that we would learn that just before dawn Umm Iyad would wake up out of oblivion, as she was comatose when we left her, completely out of it, her body distended, and she would cry out at the top of her voice: ‘Allahu Akbar, Allahu Ak- bar’, then she laughed uproariously.

The nurses hurried to her, demanding, ‘who’s laughing on the cancer ward’.

A few more hours passed by and Umm Iyad died. She passed from this world laughing, saying ‘Allahu Akbar’. Umm Sahl and Umm al-Khair washed her body. No trace of her illness remained upon her. She was no longer swollen. She looked very wonderful, very beautiful. She looked completely overjoyed, with an expression of sheer happiness on her face. It was now Friday morning and around 3000 people came to the masjid for her funeral. Thousands came, and I don’t know why all of those people prayed for her, or where they came from. Then we took her to the graveyard and prayed some more.

When Umm Sahl used to visit Umm Iyad to read the Darqawi letters Umm Iyad confided in her:

‘You know, I’ve had a good life but two things I’ve been unsatisfied with. One is that not all my children are praying. I’ve tried to raise them the best I could, but not all of them are praying. The second is that I don’t feel my nafs is like I wanted it to be’.

After she came out of the khalwa all her children were praying, and they’re still pray- ing; and her soul was illumined.

She said, ‘Now I feel both of these have been taken care of by Allah’.

I considered all of these things that had happened to Umm Iyad over such a brief pas- sage of time: her reciting the Hizb al-Kabir, taking the tariq, going on Hajj, entering the khalwa, marifah before she died. So many miracles and blessings: ‘whosoever goes on Hajj is forgiven his sins. He is as the day his mother gave birth to him’. Her wiliya—she died as an Arif-billah and I have no doubt that she is one of the awliya. So after they buried her and turned the last piece of dirt over on her, I turned away from her grave, and finally I under- stood: Sayyidina Abul Hasan al-Shadhili said, ‘whosoever reads our hizbs shall have what we have’. And this is one of the things I saw from Hizb al-Kabir.

http://www.shadhiliteachings.com/umm-iyad/

A Book by Edgar Guest

A Book by Edgar Guest “Now” - said a good book unto me - “Open my pages and you shall see Jewels of wisdom and treasures fine, Gold and silver in every line, And you may claim them if you but will Open my pages and take your fill. “Open my pages and run them o’er, Take what you choose of my golden store. Be you greedy, I shall not care - All that you seize I shall gladly spare; There is never a lock on my treasure doors, Come - here are my jewels, make them yours! “I am just a book on your mantel shelf, But I can be part of your living self; If only you’ll travel my pages through, Then I will travel the world with you. As two wines blended make better wine, Blend your mind with these truths of mine. “I’ll make you fitter to talk with men, I’ll touch with silver the lines you pen, I’ll lead you nearer the truth you seek, I’ll strengthen you when your faith grows weak - This place on your shelf is a prison cell, Let me come into your mind to dwell!”

The Beauty of Having Good Adab

My mom always reminds me how she had the worst pregnancy with me. Out of five pregnancies, I tortured her during my luxurious stay in Hotel Womb. What did she expect? I’m not your average Jane, so of course carrying a legend would be too much to handle lol. There is one story though that really gets me all emotional. My mom was nine months pregnant with me and was walking with my brothers from the clinic to the bus stop which was a long walk. Back then in January it used to snow a lot and there would be inches of snow to walk through. When she finally arrived at the bus stop, my oldest brother who was less than three years old was completely wet from waist down from all the snow. My other brother was less than two years old and he was in the stroller which my mom was having a hard time pushing. As she was waiting at the bus stop as cold as an ice popsicle, a Palestinian man who owned a store in front of the bus stop invited her inside the store to stay warm. He took my brother’s pants and socks off and put them on the heater to dry. He told my mom to stay inside the store until the bus arrived. What did he do next? He went outside and waited at the bus stop and when he saw the bus approaching he went back inside and helped my mom get on the bus with my brothers. For the past twenty nine years, my mom has constantly made du3a for that man. Imagine someone making du3a for you for almost three decades and you have no idea. It is the simple acts of kindness that matter most and are never forgotten. If that man is still alive, I pray he lives a long and healthy life. If he has already passed away then may he rest in peace and be from the inhabitants of Paradise.

From 

http://thebeautyofislam.tumblr.com/post/41379116649

Touching Hearts

Touching hearts.


As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant.

It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners... he is a joy to be around.."

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."

His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper That he got from a grocery bag Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume.. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to." After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.

On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets.."

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling* her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer.... The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for* believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."

(For you that don't know, Teddy Stoddard is the Dr. at Iowa Methodist Hospital in Des Moines that has the Stoddard Cancer Wing.)

Warm someone's heart today. . . pass this along. I love this story so very much, I cry every time I read it. Just try to make a difference in someone's life today? tomorrow? Just "do it".

Random acts of kindness, I think they call it?

"Believe in Angels, then return the favor."

Roses from the Prophet SAW

Shaykh Rizwan's Timetable of Study

Last week, in the Tradition of the Scholars module, we covered the topic of 'The Student'. 

It brought to mind an extraordinary conversation (conducted more like an interview!) I recently had with Shaykh Ruzwan about his timetable of study when he, himself, was a student at the prestigious and highly-regarded institute of education, the Madh al-Fath, in Damascus, Syria. Reading it will help you understand just why the standard of the course material and presentations produced by Shaykh Ruzwan for the iSyllabus is so excellent. 

I asked him what time his lessons started and finished, when he had his breaks, meal times, private study, etc. to try and get an idea of how his days as a student compared to today. 

His period of study at the Institute begun at 7am up until 2pm, during which he covered various subjects in the Islamic sciences. After Zuhr prayer, he would take a short nap or rest, then get up and embark on some private study, going over and preparing for future lessons. This lasted up until Maghrib prayer and included a short and very simple meal he would muster up before he went for prayer (coincidentally his diet, as advised by his teachers to all students, was very simple and meat was eaten on average once every 3 months). After Maghrib, he would attend some private lessons with other teachers followed by Isha and by 10pm he would retire to sleep. Such was the regularity of his routine, the Shaykh would be asleep by 10.02pm! 

I then asked the Shaykh how long this routine lasted and was gobsmacked at his answer: 7 YEARS! He would return home for a short period of 2-3 weeks every 2 years and upon hearing this I breathed a sigh of relief at finally being able to attribute a sense of normality to him. But no. His returns to the UK were always planned to coincide with a period of renovation and restoration work he and his brother-in-law had arranged. So rather then seemingly return for a break, he actually worked as a skilled house renovator, painting, plastering and the like to earn money to finance his studies abroad. The Shaykh's studies abroad were always financed by himself. 

At this point I would like to point out the Shaykh was reluctantly answering my probing questions and there was a visible sense of humility apparent in all his answers. 

In Syria he told me how he once fitted a whole kitchen of an old woman, his landlady, as a thank you gesture. I asked if he took a break from his studies to do so as how else would he have found the time. He just smiled in response. 

From Shaykh Amer Jamil from I Syllabus